Slave and the Prince
by InaLndofMyth
Summary: They say his kin can only be seen on the eve of the Solstices — but no one in their right of mind would ever dare to capture one. Or so he thought. Enslaved for several years, Merlin’s first kind encounter with a mortal occurs. Arthur cannot forget the boy in the iron cage. Both are deeply effected, and the events that unravel after threaten the very existence of Camelot.
1. Part One — Merlin

**Part One — Merlin**

_When the days are cold_

_And the cards all fold_

_And the saints we see_

_Are all made of gold_

_Demons by Imagine Dragons _

He first laid eyes on the Prince from far above, where only few knew he dwelled. Veiled by shadows and masked by chains, only one could grant him his freedom. Freedom. Liberty. The words fabricating a world of false happiness and security were not foreign to the boy's tongue, but they might've well been, for it had been several years since he was unbound. Several long years of work and torture and turmoil — dreaming of his homeland to withstand the lashes, recalling his mother's eyes when the beating was too harsh, imagining the feasting of flesh when his days went unfed.

The first glimpse the boy caught of the other was that of his golden hair, illuminated in torch light from the scones upon the thin walls — this he knew from the pleas and cries and grunting that pieces the frail wood at night, and even during the light hours as well. The prince stuck out in the crowd of brunettes and gingers like the sun, like a flame lit during the Dead Night. This stranger's clothes, on the other hand, were perfectly in tune with everyone else's. A typical tunic of rough material, faded breeches and a heavy cloak. His appearance bore no trace of royalty, yet the boy somehow knew from miles above and only a quick glimpse in the dark, that this was no normal fellow.

The boy's mouth foamed as his thoughts whirled of sinking his teeth into any of the necks of the mortals mulling around below. He was no blood sucker or undead wanderer but he needed flesh and blood to keep him alive and grounded. This, his captors unfortunately knew, as they were also aware that he technically needed to only feed twice a month to live, and cruelly starved him until he was almost mad with hunger. Albeit, he could survive without a daily or even weekly meal of flesh, this did not mean he couldn't find nourishment and strength from their mortal food, either. But they did not care. Not a single one of them.

The boy fiercely pulled on his restraints for the thousandth time, and for the thousandth time it was to no prevail. He mewled pitifully as pain shot up his arm. His captors were quick thinking in their planning of imprisoning one of his kind in advance. The cage he crouched within was carefully crafted metal, as were the chains around his arms and legs and the giant lock on the door. The contraption of metal they forced onto his head was another sort of cage; this for his mouth and his speech and his magic for the bar pressing upon his tongue prevented him from uttering a single word, and every single bolt and nail that held all the metal together was made of iron.

Yes. Iron. His captors knew that iron burned his kin — it even caused death should his kin be in contact with it for too long — and so they mercilessly planted iron all around him. Subtle, but affective, it fulfilled its purpose perfectly. The boy didn't dare move an inch for fear he would be burned, and his capturers had a perfect, submissive slave.

Although the prince was a good ten feet lower, the boy had impeccable hearing and needed only to strain slightly to catch the conversations taking place below.

"This is it?"

"Yes, I am positive."

"Positive? Pray tell, when is the princess ever _positive_?"

"Shut up, Gwaine."

"Leon, I am confidant we are in the right location. We followed the map correctly and it has led us here, just as it was marked and promised."

"Alright..."

"You look uneasy."

"If... if you are confidant, Sire, then I am as well, you know I trust your judgment and your word without a doubt."

"Here, here!"

"Hush, he approaches!"

"Remember the plan: not a single sword shall be drawn unless the situation presents itself in need of one, understand?"

"Yes Sire."

"Keep your eyes opened for anything and everything suspicious or out of the norm."

"Let us pray this transaction is peaceful."

"Here, here."

"Good evening, kind sir's. What business can I assist yer in today?"

The boy gritted his teeth as a band of well worn travelers of whom the conversations belonged to greeted his capturer, Golden Hair in the lead. The Slave Master was a large, round man who ate ten times his worth and never washed nor bathed. His hands were permanently dyed red from whipping, beating and striking his slaves, and there was not an ounce of good to be found in his heart. Only greed, which roared its ugly head as Aric eyed the group, estimating the men before him could bring in several hundred silver coins if he was fortunate and played his cards right.

"What are yer preferences?" Aric said, the pleasant undertone in his voice as true as a thief's promise. The boy knew from experience (as did any sensible person) that Aric had a vicious temper and violent mood swings that could arise at any given moment, over any given thing. It was best not to deal with Aric at all, which made him all the more curious why Golden and his comrades intentionally sought him out.

"We are proud to offer the largest assortment of slaves in all the Five Kingdoms. Not only do we have hard workers for the fields, mines or smitheries, but we also have younglings that can be groomed with age an' bodies of all shapes an' sizes."

"It sounds beneficial and from what I've seen of your establishment, you are quite equipped," Golden said. "Shall we discuss our preferences over a meal, or perhaps a refreshment? It has been an extremely long and tiresome journey to make. My me—_friends_ are weary and cold; yet word has it that you are the finest of slave traders in all of Mercia and we wanted to experience the elite for ourselves, and so we had to come all this way see for ourselves."

The men held their breath as Aric eyed their haggard group of five. He gave them a stiff nod, mouth quipping in a malevolent grin. Reputation was everything; it could kill a man or crown him, and Aric was making his way to becoming a Lord, judging by the massive amounts of purses that filled the hall each day, willing to pay good coin for service and bodies.

"Yes, I can assure yer all that yer will not find any a finer slave than here."

The men shared a hidden smile only the boy took notice of.

"Come now, good sir's, sit by the fire an' warm yerselves with our richest ale an' hottest stew. Rest from yer long journey an' we shall continue our talk of profit."

Aric led the men to a table by the grand fire pit that sat in the center of the room and each took a fur-covered seat as he clapped his hands. Immediately, a timid serving girl came forth on trembling legs. Golden Hair frowned deeply as the light of the fire danced over the bruises plainly displayed on the girl's neck, collar and arms. The boy above only winced in knowing sympathy as he observed the black and blue splotches. He had spent many years with Aric and in the Slave Hall — it was only of the norm to receive a daily beating. The only chance the poor souls had of escaping the abuse here was if death swooped in to take their spirits or a master came calling for their service.

"Tell the kitchen I want the fat goose prepared for these men, an' that our best wine is to be served. Not the shit that's watered down like nothing, the real stuff that's in the barrels in the back. Hurry!"

The girl, all wide eyes and matted hair, scrambled to carry out his orders. As she darted from the hall she tripped on a foot purposely stuck in her path and went crashing to the ground. Bystanders roared in laughter like lions in the fighting arena.

"Is it for sale?" Someone called gleefully from the sidelines. The boy couldn't make out a face to par with the voice.

"No."

"Oh, come now Aric! It's such a pretty thing — you know how crazy Hellen's been lately. I need something new, something fresh!"

"Something new, sure," said a beefy man with squinty eyes and stringy hair. "But I can tell you from personal experiences that it ain't something fresh."

The crowd hollered and cheered and the boy above felt sick to his stomach as he watched tears gather in the corners of the girl's large eyes.

A thin man with a mane of dark curls, leather attire and wild orbs the color of the Dead Night came forth. He crouched next to the girl, grasping her chin in his hand as he examined her closely. "But I, however, do not care if it is used goods or not. As long as the work is completed, I am satisfied."

The girl whimpered as he cradle her dirt-smudged face. "How precious," the man drawled. "Does it speak?"

"I said no. It ain't for sale. I ask yer to step away so it can complete the task I gave it." Aric made no move to cross the hall, but his voice rang clear and strong and his intentions were unpredictable, something everyone knew enough to fear.

The man didn't move.

"Yer have been a favorable business partner over the years, Cenred; we have always made good profit together. For that I greatly appreciate. Which is why I shall hate to have to call the guards to escort yer elsewhere."

This time Cenred dropped his hands as if he was burned and quickly rejoined the crowd.

"Leave," was all Aric said, and the girl all but fled the hall. As she left in a flurry of tattered skirts only the boy noticed something that sent shivers down his spine.

It was a rune. He could tell the second he saw it. Carefully etched into the skin of her forearm, and creatively hidden with sorcery so that only those of magic themselves could see through the concealment, it was cleverly hidden and a cry for help.

A _Druid_ rune.


	2. Part Two — Arthur

**Part Two — Arthur**

_When your dreams all fail_

_And the ones we hail_

_Are the worst of all_

_And the blood runs stale_

Arthur gritted his teeth as the men jeered and whistled. Their behavior was repulsive and no amount of washing could ever rid them of their filth. "I apologize for the distraction," the Slave Master was saying. He did not apologize for the mistreatment of the girl, or how the eyes prodded at her privacy. He only sought the coins Arthur possessed in his purse, and this had Arthur's blood boiling.

_Calm yourself_, he chanted silently. He had an order to fulfill. Important business that needed attending. His men looked to him to lead and to follow — he couldn't afford any distractions now, especially over something as trivial as emotions. This was the norm for these poor souls, as unfortunate as it was. Slavery was illegal in Camelot (albeit, indentured servants weren't a great deal better) and it sickened Arthur to see humans being treated as if they were peacocks behind bars. But this fact did not ease the guilt in Arthur's mind, and he could only let his hatred for the Slave Master simmer silently in his veins as he bore a neutral expression. His time would come to put an end to all the sins that were being committed here.

"No harm is done," Leon said smoothly when the others failed to respond. Like Arthur they were disgusted and appalled by the behavior of the crowd. But fortunately, Leon easily brushed off the unease and displaying a tight-lipped smile. A stranger would mistake it as friendly but Arthur knew there was hatred in the depths of the green irises. "Now, where is that ale you promised?"

The food was actually quite good, yet Arthur hardly registered any of the tastes — too concerned with memorizing every single bit of information Aric let slip with his loosened tongue (which wasn't much). His father had always chastised him for thinking too much.

Arthur irritably brushed off a girl seeking his lap, slipping her a silver coin and promptly ignoring her small gasp and hushed _thank you!_ Instead; he studied the Hall with a soldier's trained eye, taking note of all the exits and entries and possible escape routes for the future. The structure of the chamber somewhat resembled the Great Hall of Camelot; both keep's floors were of smooth, alabaster stones; floor-to-ceiling pane-glass windows that littered the walls; and the wooden rafters, like Camelot's, stretched into the shadows and eves and beyond. But the similarities ended there. The merriness and benevolence that infiltrated Camelot would be vastly consumed by the agony and fear of the Slave Hall. To another, the scene might be normal; men gathered 'round tables while nursing a cup of mead or two, but Arthur knew of the evil that lurked beneath the pleasant greetings and warm words.

"How can I be of the best of service?" Aric said once all the wine and food was consumed to its fill. "What is it that yer are looking for, specifically?"

This was it, the moment they all dread. It was either sink or swim; the Slave Master would believe their tale or he wouldn't, and Arthur could not, under any circumstances, allow this mission to fail.

Out of the corner of his eye, Arthur saw Leon hold his breath as the prince rested his weight on his elbows. "I am in need of a manservant. My previous man, George, has fallen ill with Red Thrush Fever. I would normally seek for a servant back at home, but I have found in my travels that the Fever has taken most of the eligible Slave Houses, forcing me come here at long last."

"Red Thrush Fever?" Aric's left eyebrow shot in to his hairline. "I've never heard of such an illness."

"Be glad you haven't," Lancelot said, a man of olive skin and handsome features. As Arthur and the rest of their company, Lancelot wore peasantry garments. He nodded knowingly and leaned across the table as if to tell the Slave Master a very important secret. "You are most fortunate to have not seen the symptoms of the illness, and pray you never shall."

"Symptoms?"

"Oh yes," Percival said ominously from beneath his own peasant cloak. "The throat swells so much you cannot eat or drink or speak. Your face flushes so hot, you feel as though your very flesh is on fire. Your limbs feel as heavy as stone and your brain is as muddled as fog."

"The certain outcome of befalling such symptoms is death. _Death_," Gwaine emphasized, taking great delight in how Aric paled. He vainly brushed aside mocha locks and smacked the table for emphasis. "They've made all attempts to cure the illness but no remedy has been proven to be successful... yet."

The man was enjoying this too much, Arthur thought, as Gwaine incorporated sound effects and wild hand gestures to his story. He should've become an actor.

"_Death?!_" Aric's right eyebrow leapt up to meet the other.

"Yes, oh yes, such a terrible pity. We have lost many good men to the Red Thrust Fever," Elyan sighed, bowing his head solemnly.

Lancelot nodded sadly and Leon moved his words in silent prayer.

They should all become actors, Arthur decided.

"O-oh my," Aric babbled, sweat rolling down his temples. "How horrid... an' gross... How unfortunate to loose all those profitable specimens. I trust yer gentlemen have not encountered these victims, o-or symptoms...?"

Gwaine coughed into his fist and Aric nearly jumped in fright.

"No, we are all well in health," Arthur said firmly, concluding the time for fun had come to an end. "Take heed, we would not intentionally bring illness to your land."

Aric visibly slumped in his seat. "No, no of course yer wouldn't, men as fine as yerselves..." he took out a handkerchief and dabbed at his glistening neck. He swallowed a few times, Adam's apple bobbing harshly as he processed the information. "Now, if we may, direct our attention back to business?"

"Of course."

"Yes. Wonderful. Splendid. Kind sirs, if you would follow me, please." Aric tucked the linen in his sleeve and the men rose with him, wariness written in the creases of their brows.

Arthur froze as he passed the fire pit. The flickering flames bled into images onto the far walls that were found only in the deepest depths of a man's imagination — silhouettes of beasts... echoes of enchantments... slivers of screams... wisps of wishes... shards of dreams... slivers of broken hearts... Arthur blinked, and the Hall was only a Hall once more with only shadows and men.

There were several large alcoves and adjourning chambers connecting to the main hall that had immediately grabbed Arthur's attention. Upon his arrival, he was unable to discover where the chambers led, yet now Aric ventured into the very mouth of such an alcove and Arthur and the men eagerly followed at his heels.

The alcove was small and damp with only a single, pitiful window for the sun to fall through... but night had fallen and so the entire space was as black as the stomach of a beast. It smelled of mold and rot and blood and was much quieter than the main hall. Arthur even allowed himself a moment to breathe, a hand resting on his faithful sword. He imagined the others doing the same, all inhaling and exhaling at once in the dark; but after a moment of straining in the inkiness, he could almost swear there were more breaths than accounted for.

A burst of light and his men's faces were basked in the warm glow of fire. Aric raised a torch high.

The alcove was as large as a single-roomed hovel and the stone ceiling dipped so low that Percival's head brushed the top. Arthur had assumed correctly when he wondered if their company was more than six men. In fact, there was a whole gaggle of men, of all ages ranging from young lads to fully grown adults.

The sight was pitiful to see; a group of men in a cell that was clearly built to hold at least half their numbers. The majority of the slaves sat on the hay-blanketed ground, blinking wordlessly beneath dirt lidded eyes. They were all filthy, covered in mud and blood and their own disposal — the smell could easily rival the sight alone. Those who stood leaned against the walls of the tiny cell, yet none seemed able to stand on their own accord. It was as if the slaves were a group of the living dead with their sunken eyes, protruding ribs and skeletal limbs (one boy's thigh was as thin as Arthur's forearm).

It wasn't every day that one had a tour of a Slave House. The atrocities within the building's falsely decent exterior weren't for the faint of heart, to say at the very least. It did not escape Arthur's keen eyes that every single slave was shackled, and that there was a man laying in the corner of the cell with half his skin missing, crying out blindly. A victim of this winter's frostbite, no doubt.

Arthur swallowed the lump that lodged itself in his throat. Had this man lived in Camelot, Gaius would've immediately treated his wounds and he would've been healed well before the spring. Alas, this man was not a citizen of his father's kingdom but of Mercia, and was considered property like the rest of them — and so, as greatly as Arthur wished to offer his aid, he remained silent.

_Coward!_ his conscience screamed.

_Be quiet_.

"How many are here?" Leon asked faintly. His curls were a sweaty mess stuck to his forehead.

Arthur leaned closer to catch the Slave Master's words. The entire purpose of dressing like commoners and tramping through the wilderness of Mercia was to gather the precise information of the whereabouts of the famous Slave Hall so that they could destroy the keep and all of its transactions within and to truly see if the impenetrable structure was destructible.

"Seventy, sir," Aric grunted. "All between the ages of twelve an' thirty."

"Are they all in good health?" Arthur said. Judging by the looks of them — yellow teeth and gray skin tinged scarlet, one could've assumed the bunch just came from a tavern brawl after a roll in the pig's pen.

A woman's scream pierced the air; it was thick with tension and apprehensive, and Arthur automatically tightened his grasp on the hilt of his sword. Several more cries echoed, followed by men's shouting and the crashing of furniture.

"No worries," Aric said, hardly effected by the ungodly actions that were taking place next door. That was also an obvious daily occurrence. Did these men have no guilt? No shame?

"In reply to yer question, yes, they are all in good health... as one can be in their condition, as yer see. We can't afford wasting coin on the likes of em, but they manage fine down here."

Elyan grunted, and that was the response.

"Now, these are all the adult male slaves we have that are for sale. The children, six to twelve, are in another cell — further down — should yer wish to see 'em." Arthur did not wish to see any more than he had already. "But these slaves are all fine to work the fields or the forges or the mines, an' I am confident yer will be pleased by yer purchase. Each is ten silver coins apiece, might I add."

"Apiece?" Gawine said, feigning disgust. "Surly the younger slaves are of less worth than the older, the more experienced? And would they not be more rowdy, more likely to defy an order? I cannot afford to waste my money on unsuitable slaves..." Arthur know his friend loathed the words that left his lips, that had him sounding a careless master who's only interest was in his wealth (the perfect description of Gwaine's father, in fact) — but every man had a fundamental role in an act that could not yet be abandoned. Soon, Arthur silently swore as he gazed upon the slave's faces. Soon we shall free you all.

"Yer speak well an' yer worries are not unheard Fear not, sir, we have thought ahead an' have taken care of the... possibility of such a disgrace occurring." Aric went to the cell and as if he was the plaque itself, the slaves scuttled away to huddle up against the far stone wall. One began to plead in a language Arthur couldn't detect.

"All limbs are attached an' working, see, they're perfectly well other than a little sore an' discoloration. If yer don't want yer linens dirtied than just give 'em a good wash an' yer'll see the effect immediately. Why, it worked just last month." Aric grabbed the arm of a young boy through the steel bars and yanked him roughly to the cell door. He spat into his hand and smeared it across the boy's elbow, wiping dirt and blood away. It was probably the closest thing the boy had to a wash in weeks.

"What's his name?" Percival asked, stepping into the pool of torchlight.

"Name? It doesn't have a name," Aric said, brow furrowed in puzzlement.

"Do you have a name? What do they call you?" Percival asked, turning to the boy, promptly ignoring the man.

The boy only whimpered and pulled at the arm that was caught in the Slave Master's grasp.

"Speak when being spoken to." Aric gave him a harsh shake, yellow teeth bared.

"I... I don't know," the boy rasped. When was the last time he was given food or water, Arthur did not know. "It's been so long... I can't remember..."

"We've had this one for years. We just moved it from the children's cells yesterday."

Elyan came forward, a kind smile in his eyes. "How old are you?"

The boy wet his lips, eyes darting from Arthur's men to Aric. "T-thirteen summers?"

"So young," Leon murmured.

"Do not coddle it," Aric snipped, watching the interaction with suspicious flicks back and forth. "It will only grow attached an' dependent an' expectant an' shit. Yer are looking for slaves, not pets, yes?"

"Indeed, we are in search of a slave," Arthur said as coldly as he dared. They still needed the man's knowledge of the Slave Hall and his willing participation, therefor they could not have him opposed to speaking to any one of them. "But that does not mean we must rule out civility to humans, does it not?"

Aric snorted, releasing the boy with a hard shove. A groan was heard as he went tumbling into a mass of filthy limbs. "They ain't human."


	3. Part Three — Merlin

_**Part Three — Merlin **_

_I want to hide the truth_

_I want to shelter you_

_But with the beast inside_

_

There's nowhere we can hide

_

Twice a month the boy in the cage knew his isolated world would be integrated with the mortals by a reluctant soul who was chosen to feed him that day. As Golden Hair was ushered away to the holding cells by Aric, the boy above heard rustling below. The girl, the Druid, had nabbed the iron ladder Aric kept in the kitchens and propped it against the wall. She began her ascent with one white-knuckled hand gripping the ladder rungs and the other clutching the iron pail of a long awaited meal. He waited in yearning premonition for the food.

The girl could not see into the caliginous shadows, but the boy could. He scrutinized her bony wrists with an upturned nose as she almost misplaced a foot which would've sent her tumbling to the ground twelve feet below, had she not steadied herself. As she neared his cage the turmoil in her eyes seemed to grow with each rung. The boy could not blame her. Every ghastly, gory, nightmarish tale the Slave Master spun of the boy to ensnare spectators held a fabric of truth. She should be weary of his presence — fearful, even, for if his voice hadn't been silence and his body hadn't been caged, the boy would've killed each and every mortal in the Slave Hall with a single, shrill note.

He had never vomited before, but swinging back and forth in a small, metal cage on a single chain twelve feet above the ground certainly tried his ability to keep his insides down. The supporting nauseas from hunger did nothing to improve his state or being, either. But soon that would improve by the girl and the pail she bore.

The girl reached the top of the ladder, momentarily pausing to glance downwards (a grave mistake judging by her shaky gasp) and immediately, unknowingly, met the boy's curious gaze as she snapped her eyes back up — anywhere but below. She was plain but not unattractive, the boy supposed. Dark, mattered hair framed wide doe eyes and kind features that were softened by baby fat. Had their situations been different, he might've asked her to feed with him — if she was his kin.

"Here," the girl whispered into the blackness as she brought forth the pail.

The boy whined as the smell of fresh kill sang to his senses. He could not maneuver his arms to grab the food for the weight of his restraints felt as heavy as a thousand stones. The girl struck a match against her wrist and a small flame leapt to life. The boy sat as still as a stature, watching as she stifled a gasp. He was no mortal prince or member of the royal court but his appearance did not scream monster either. He did not fit the image Aric had painted in each and every mind at the Hall — an image of a boy with spiraling horns, gleaming fangs, ruby eyes that glowed when he killed and fingers that elongated when he sang his victims to death — but instead, bore resemblance more to the mortal boys in the cells.

The girl's hand slithered into her hip pocket and produced a long hook about the length of her forearm; extending the rod, the hook latched onto the bars to pull him close. She attached the small chain connecting to the cage door to a metal loop that was fashioned into the wall for this very purpose. Then she withdrew an iron key. The Slave Master was purposeful when he crafted the very thing that allowed the boy freedom to burn his skin, should the boy attempt to flee.

"I am going to unlock the cage," the Druid whispered tentatively. "I have a pail of food with with me that is for you. I shall now place the pail—" the boy hissed and sprung into a crouch, metal cage swinging wildly "—no pail, no pail, just food, only food," she said quickly, "inside the cage and then I must lock up again."

Moving as gracefully as one could manage whilst balancing twelve feet in the air and clutching a single match in her fingers, the girl plunged the iron key into the cage door lock and twisted with a jerk. She all but tossed the contents of the pail into the boy's lap and quickly slammed the door shut.

At once the boy dove for the meat and eagerly tore it into little strips that could fit through the contraption around his head and the bar upon his tongue. It felt so good to have flesh in his mouth, to fill his belly again. His mouth was dancing as he inhaled the food and the magic in his veins answered to a fuel once more. Warmth and heat seeped into his stiff fingers and toes as a faint flush crept into his pale cheeks and his eyes lost the frosty spark they harbored with starvation.

He wanted to thank the girl for his previous feeders tended to duel out a beating or requested a favor before they gave him his meal, but the bar on his tongue prevented him from speaking, so he glanced at her with gratitude shinning in his eyes.

_Thank you_. If he read her rune correctly…

The girl's eyes widened, if it was possible. A wonderment came to her, flashing across her face. She dipped her head. _It is a pleasure to serve you, Emrys_.

Emrys. Something jolted deep inside the boy that had been forgotten over his long years of slavery and solitude. Like a month to the flame, his magic answered to his _Other Name_, sniffing the air to see if it could be of use. Oh, how he yearned to grant his powers free rein once more — his magic was just there, humming beneath the surface of his skin, ready to uncoil and strike like a fierce serpent protecting her babies — but he was no longer Emrys; Prophesied of the Druid legends, Winter Prince, Son of the Queen, the Greatest Sorcerer to Ever Live. Emrys was a thousand of years and lifetimes and Solstices ago, memories he didn't dare dwell upon for fear he would drown in a sea of despair and sorrow.

_And I you. _

The boy smiled morosely. _What do they call you? Why are you here?_

_I was called Freya_, _and I... __do not remember much... only that I was at my family's camp a few days previous with a clan of other Druids and we were celebrating a birthing. All was well. Nothing seemed amiss. But then, suddenly everything was bright and hazy and loud... and when I awoke I was in the holding cells. _

_Was any of your clan caught too?_

_Yes, Emrys. My sister. I have only seen her twice. _

_Please, do not call me by that name. Not here_. The boy sighed and shifted and crossed his legs, lacing his fingers above his knees. _I fear the fate you both shall find here. __What is her name?_

_Sefa. She is only—_

"Yer! Up there! What do yer think yer doing?"

Freya gasped, startled, and all thoughts of maintaining balance slipping from her mind. Had it not been for the boy's arm she would've fallen to the ground and broke her neck. "Oh!" She murmured as he hissed in pain. He had reached between the bars to grab the iron pail with his left hand to steady her fall.

"Hey! Come down from there!" Aric hollered.

_I-I'm fine_, he reassured her, eyes watering and nose twitching. Freya frowned at how faint his voice sounded in her head.

"Girlie! Wotcha waiting for? Do I need to come up an' get yer?"

_Leave me_! The boy cried. Freya bit back a gasp as he withdrew his hand, an angry, puffy pink; the entire palm was distorted, sizzling, blistering flesh. As a young fae the boy had been forewarned of the perils of iron and as a young man he encountered these dangers himself — but thepainthepain the _excruciating_ pain was something the boy could never prepare himself for, no matter how many warnings were whispered in his ear or the scores of times he had been burned before.

_I..._

_Leave me_! He hissed, unable to contain his fury for the world as the pain threatened to take his sight. He thought his resilience stronger than this. His pride was battered and fraying and his will was slowly disintegrating.

Freya unhooked his cage and scuttled down the ladder to disappear into a cluster of people.

The boy curled onto his side and clutched his hand to his chest, pressing his eyelids together as he wished darkness to seize him. The cage was so small it prevented him from stretching his limbs; forcing him in a cramped position for days at a time until Aric let him out. He couldn't contain the sobs that racked his body as his hand throbbed and pulsed. His magic brimmed and hummed in his veins, begging to be released, to be used, to heal, to help, but the boy couldn't summon his magic without words and his words were suppressed by mortals and iron.

Aric demanded, "what's wrong with it", and he hadn't realized his weeping could be heard from below. He almost never gave the Slavers that satisfaction.

"Growing pains again?" a man jeered. Cenred. Aric's Slave Hall had supplied laborers for Cenred's fortress for the entirety of the boy's captivity — nearly nine whole winters. During the third year of captivity the boy had grown twice his size in height and the original cage became to small for his newly found lankiness. It took another six, torturous months for Aric to finally replace the cage with a larger replica. During this period the boy was forced to stuff himself within the tiny bars. To express his displeasure he would shriek continuously into the night until Aric took up his iron rod and beat his arms and legs, or he'd allow Cenred creative freedom with the boy. In his dreams he heard saw Aric and Cenred's cruel laughter above his wailing, deformed corpse.

"No, it's just being dramatic," Aric sneered. "Wants attention, bet it does."

"Attention, does it? Hmmm. Well, it certainly won't want mine," hooted Cenred. The boy suppressed a shudder as the unwanted memory of rough hands and perveted eyes pierced his memory.

"It?" questioned another man. Golden Hair. His voice was warm and deep and kind and reminded the boy of sun framing leaves, feathers upon water, great ice fires, the whittling of wood, the life he once knew. "Is it safe to assume that we are speaking of another slave?"

"Er... yes, of a sort," Aric muttered.

"Of a sort? Forgive me Sir, but I recall you claiming the bodies in the holding cells were all that you have... yet you clearly have another."

"I... yes, well, I ah… meant those only eligible for work, Sir."

"Eligible? How so?"

Aric wheezed slightly as he sank into a chair and the furs seemed to swallow him like quick sand. "Yer've heard the tales of the Demonic Fae, have yer not? Creatures sired by Lucifer himself. His seed was our curse. His undoing of our world. The Demonic Fae are pure misery an' suffering themselves — it pumps from their hearts to flow in their veins just as blood does in ours.

"The monsters are born looking like beasts but are quickly taught to take human form to deceive an' devour us. They feed off human flesh as well as the hides of animals; it does not matter from where their source is from, be it carcass or corpse. Due to these criminal attributes (people claimed to have seen these demons summon plaques an' disease before their very eyes. The mean only ill will to us an' our world) the creatures have been quelled to another; the Other Realm. Legend says that on the eve of the Winter Solstice the veil between the Other Realm an' the Mortal World is at its thinnest. If one travels to the Lake of Avalon an' casts his eyes into the waters, he might catch a glimpse of the Demonic Fae's festivities as they kill the sun, for they know it is our light."

The boy felt a frown tug on his lips, eyes still shut and limbs still trembling. His kin did not wish to kill the mighty sun, but instead they gathered every year to celebrate the shortest day of the year, where the moon, the very essence of who they were, graced their skies for the longest night of the year. It was only the holiest of moments for creatures of the Realm such as themselves to witness the rising of the quivering orb as it melted across an inky sea of stars. There was no malicious intent in any of their actions.

The same could not be said about humans.

"So... you are telling me that you have somehow managed to capture one of those devil spawns... a _Demonic Fae_," Golden Hair said, words seeping with doubt. "Is such a thing even _possible_?"

"The very thought had come to us, Sir," Aric said, far too eagerly. "But yer see, we've discovered their one weakness. Iron."

"Every beast has one," said Cenred. "And how _f__ascinating_ it is. I could hardly believe it myself! Why, it took a look with my own eyes to finally accept that Aric has indeed, managed to capture a mythical Demonic Fae."

"Would yer wish to see it?" Aric inquired, never the one to pass up an opportunity for coin collecting.

The boy heard the cranking of a chain as his cage was slowly lowered from the shadows and bathed in a pool of firelight. At an almost leisurely pace he was brought to the ground with a loud _thump_. He continued to shiver and clutch his hand as several people gasped at the pitiful image he made. He did not require sight to know that the spectators were filled with unease — the disquietude lacing their scent rolled off them in waves — but he could also detect curiosity admitting from one, whom he assumed was the leader.

"What's wrong with him?" Golden Hair said.

"Nothing," Aric remarked. "Like I said before, it's just being dramatic. Wants more food or a walk or something, that's all."

"What is the need for a cage?"

"Sir... it's a _Demonic_ _Fae_. We must cage it in order to ensure the safety of the other slaves, the patrons, an' ourselves. Only God knows what it would do if we let it run free. With it bound we can manage it easier and no harm is done to anyone."

"No harm done —? What do you call this pathetic sight?"

"He's probably cold," another man suggested halfheartedly, trying to help. Which side? The boy did not know. "It _is_ November... the snowfall is so thick you can't see your nose and the winds are so strong they've blown grown, strong tree's out by the roots. And he wears no shirt in this frigid Hall."

The boy heard rustling material like blue bird wings, sharp inhaling from the crowd, and footsteps pounding the stone floor as someone approached the cage. He knew they didn't belong to Aric for they were much too graceful and light, nor were they Cenred's, for his were always heavy and purposeful. Always purposeful. The boy tensed at the stranger drew nearer. He was in no mood to entertain or be made an attraction to jeer at, but he knew that Aric would force him to perform if money called for such actions.

"Here," said Golden Hair and soon a cloak was falling though the bars to land upon the boy's shivering form.

"Sir!" Aric protested. "It isn't really necessary to sacrifice your cloak for the likes of that."

The boy slitted his lids, finding himself at eye level with a pair of riding boots. He shyly fingered the rough cotton before slipping it over his shoulders, all the while his loaner watching stoically from above. As he went to raise the hood, the man crouched down suddenly and caught the boy's wrist with his fingers. The boy let out a squawk at the abruptness and violently began to pull his arm free.

"Woah... easy there," Golden Hair murmured as if the boy was a spooked mare. "I mean you no harm, I only wish to inspect your hand. It's been burned, hasn't it?" He cradled the boy's fingers in his own and turned his hand over to see his palm. "You've acquired an impressive wound."

_Congratulations, you recognized a burn_, the boy wanted to say. Just because he was under chain and lock didn't mean he was daft. His pride swelled in his chest. He'd received many injuries from iron before and had suffered far worse than this in solitude. His magic prevented flesh wounds from becoming infected and his body healed itself faster than a mortal's, but no amount of power could mask how painful the process was.

The boy lifted his good hand and gently rested the palm against the man's cheek. The skin was tan and rough with just the slightness of stubble he failed to shave away while traveling. The boy felt blood coursing through veins and a pulse beneath skin. Had it been another time; one when his form was full of power and his soul was at peace, he wouldn't have hesitated to sing this mortal into a trance and break his neck to feed.

But this man was the first human to have shown kindness to the boy; the first to give him a second glance, to bother with gifting him a cloak and caring enough to take notice of his injuries. He was now in Golden Hair's debt, whether he wanted to be or not. Debts were sacred oaths his kin would die to uphold, and so the boy knew he would not be killing this mortal.

The boy opened his mouth to thank Golden Hair but had all but forgotten the cage around his head. He made a strange whimpering sound to express what words failed to do so.

"Why does he have restraints on his tongue?" The man demanded.

"It can sing, Sir," Aric said. "It's song has the power to entrance even the strongest of minds. The first day I was in for a surprise when I came down an' found all my best men dead on the floor with the beast still chained up."

"Like a Siren's song?"

The boy stiffened, a protest on the tip of his tongue. He was no where _near_ as vain as those petty creatures.

"Precisely."

Something like fury flashed in Golden Hair's eyes. They were pleasant a shade; they reminded him of the cool springs where he would bathe during the summer with his brother and sisters. Freedom taken for granted and hours wasted on idle play.

A clash rang loudly throughout the hall and the boy sprung away from the bars. He strained his necked to see past the small cluster of men that had gathered to peer at him. Past the tables, past the fire, near the entryway of the Hall, a head of blonde curls dove for the ground just in time to duck a flying plate.

"Restrain it!"

"Stop it — it's getting away!"

Someone went to grab the small figure that was hurling plates and mugs ferociously — but she cleverly danced out of reach of numerous outstretched hands and ran to the fire pit in the center of the room. The boy could see her clearly now; she had brown locks darkened with mud, bright eyes brimming with tears and hands that trembled as she snatched up the poker.

"Watch yourselves!" the blonde howled, clambering to his feet. "It's armed!" He turned to the fire and his hood slipped down, revealing a deformed face seething with rage. Edwin. The boy had personally spent time under Edwin's care when he was first enslaved. Edwin was Aric's right hand and knew the art of whipping almost as well as the art of magic. Edwin was a mortal who dabbled in the likes of sorcery. _Sorcerer_ was the title the mortals bestowed him, but the boy preferred _fraud_. The man might be able to enchant insets to do his bidding but he would never obtain magic himself. His mortal soul was too weak for such magic. Some were born to hunger for power and some were born to wield it.

The girl brandished the fire-poker, a wild frenzy in her eyes, and the Slavers eyed it warily as they closed in around her. With a cry, the child went to bash Edwin in the head with the rod — only to be disarmed by a fat, burly fellow. A man by the name of Odin stepped out from the side, caught her dress and pulled her off balance. He wrenched the poker from her grasp and threw it aside with a loud clanging and brought forth a jeweled dagger to hold upon her throat.

Time seemed to still and the girl's eyes met the boy's. He held his breath as her tears called to him; he had never seen a sight so desolate or godforsaken. His kin were suppose to believe in the gods of the Old Religion but the boy knew there were no gods here. A feminine cry pierced the air and suddenly Freya was before Odin, falling to her knees with her hands clasped in almost a prayer.

"Sir, please Sir, I beg of you, do not harm her," Freya begged. "She is young and foolish and hasn't been taught obedience. She has not learned her place, yet, but she will, I swear, I swear, by all the stars in the sky."

A dangerous oath for a Druid to make.

"_Obedience?_" The wild girl spat, eyes flashing with fury. Stupid child, couldn't she see fate was trying to prevent her demise? Odin tightened his grip on her neck and dug the edge of his dagger into the swell of her threat. The girl made a small, choking sound as blood welled beneath the blade and Freya cried out again.

"Please, please, please, spare her. She meant no harm. She is quick. She will learn. She will be of use to you in the future."

"Be of use, you say?" Odin sneered, revealing two rows of yellow teeth and blackened gums. "How will she be of any use to me if she attempts to murder all my potential patrons? Can you imagine, girl, all that money being thrown away for a single slave? I would be ruined! No, we shall take care of this now."

Odin gripped the dagger with a steel glint in his eyes as Freya sobbed on her knees.

"Wait."

All eyes fell upon Aric.

"Sir?" Odin grumbled.

"Death is too good… too _easy_..." The boy stiffened as dread tiptoed up and down his spine. Aric spread his arms as if he were Atlas, holding the weight of the sky. "Give her here! We shall have the Demon sing!"

His kin held the power of song in the highest regards, believing their notes to be the holiest of magic and a gift from the gods of the Old Religion themselves. Only a very few of the Demonic Fae did obtain enough power to become vessels themselves, allowing their magic to churn inside of them and be crafted into words put on a tune. The boy appreciated his gifts, he did, even if he took them for granted as a child. But sorcery always came with a price. The price the boy unwillingly paid every time he sang was to experience alongside his victim whatever hellish nightmare his words created.

_Emrys, Emrys pleas_e, the boy heard as the Druid girl was dragged to his cage. _Spare her. She is young, naïve, she is all that I have in this world. _

He watched with dead eyes as Aric opened the cage door. Wax was passed around for the Slavers and travelers to stuff their ears with so that they were unaffected by his voice — Sefa was spared. Aric unlocked the contraption around his head. He made certain that the boy saw him take up his iron whip. His warning was clear enough.

The boy hesitated briefly, marveling at his newly found freedom. He crawled out of the cage and knelt on throbbing legs near Sefa, who laid in a small heap where Odin had deposed her, shaking like a leaf in a thunderstorm.

He lifted her chin to meet her petrified gaze. His heart twisted as her fear penetrated him. He was not the one who deserved her fright. The boy took a deep breath and closed his eyes. _Monster. Evil. Wicked. Demon. Sorcerer. Devil's Spawn_. He felt his magic swirl at his finger tips and his head throbbed like a thousand feet were pounding a trail to dust. _Dirt. Filth. Pathetic. Scum_. In that moment he had no greater wish than to enchant each and every Slaver who had caused him grief and harm and pain over the years. _Weak. Stupid. Animal. It. Inhuman_.

But instead, he opened his eyes and faced Sefa. The Demon widened his lips, and a sweet song admitted from the depths of his soul.


	4. Part Four — Arthur

_A/N: thank you for the lovely messages! They make my day and never fail to bring a smile to my face. I greatly appreciate you. _

_**Part Four — Arthur **_

_No matter what we breed_

_

We still are made of greed

This is my kingdom come

This is my kingdom come...

_

"Are you feeling unwell, Sire?"

For the last two hours Arthur had been pouring over a roughly sketched map of the Slave Hall while Leon worked on memorizing a list of slave numbers Aric had given him on request. As Arthur glanced up from, his neck crackied in displeasure after maintaining such a position for so long. "No. Yes. Perhaps. Perhaps not. Why-ever do you ask?"

Sir Leon shrugged seemingly notoriously, but Arthur saw past the facade and knew him well enough to know unspoken thoughts were brimming and brewing. "I only..."

"Yes?"

Leon tucked a dirty blonde lock behind his ear. "May I be frank, Sire?"

"Please. There are too many imposters in this place. I could do with some truth." Arthur took the map that laid on his knees and placed it on the table, crossing his legs as he sat back to listen to the man he's known since childhood.

"The Demonic Fae, from earlier. Forgive my assumptions but it seemed you were quite... taken with the creature."

"Taken? Yes, I suppose I was," Arthur mulled. He rested his chin in his palm, propping an elbow on the chair's arm. "I have never seen a Demonic Fae in all my life and I do not know if I ever will again. I was greatly intrigued."

"But Sire..." Sir Leon shifted in his chair. "You seemed more than intrigued. _Enamored_, I might suggest. It was quite clear to all of us. I have never seen you so spellbound before. You ever dared to lend him your own cloak—"

"The boy was shivering and shirtless in the midst of our harshest winter!"

"—before hundreds of spectators alike," Leon continued. "_Including Aric_. He was suspicious, did you fail to notice? I feared his weariness would affect our mission, I feared he would ask us questions we could not afford to answer, I feared your actions jeopardized us all. To the Mercians it was an odd thought to process; a patron seeking to purchase a slave then turns around and voluntarily sacrifices his cloak for the likes of a creature that they believe is the son of the Satan."

Leon sighed and rubbed his temples. He had known Arthur since they were of two and nine summers. Arthur had grown to manhood with Leon kindly reprimanding his frequently reckless behavior. Leon's only concern was that the direness of the outcomes of his friend's carelessness grew with them instead of dissipating, as he hoped.

"Alas... these are but small worries," he said. His voice had lost its edge. The night was long and cold and he was weary. "Aric has all but forgotten the small gesture. No harm was done and the plan is still in play. I only ask that you think before you carry out your actions. The Mercians are not as caring to those of lower rank and the Slavers are even less so. What we may consider acts of humanity, they think of unnecessary privileges."

Arthur leaned back in his plushy chair, soaking in the warmth of the fire. In truth, he had not thought of the repercussions his actions might've caused in the Hall. He only knew that the boy was suffering and hoped his thin cloak would offer a pitifully small amount of warmth. His father often scolded him for thinking with his heart instead of his head, and Arthur had to admit this was true. He was always the first to stride great, formidable lengths to aid anyone he saw suffering before even considering the consequences of his actions. He supposed this was why Leon was here, to shed light on his shortcomings. Thank God for his friend.

"I… yes, I see your perspective. Very well. Thank you for your council, Leon. It is greatly valued."

The blonde bowed his head and went back to his scroll.

Arthur sighed as he brought his gaze to his sketch once more. It was a poor substitute of a map with simple ash streaks on paper, but it was all they could afford to ask for without raising Aric's eyebrow again. But try as he might, his mind was not as easy to rein in as his eyes.

Arthur's thoughts drifted to the Demon boy in the cage. How his figure was so small and thin behind bars; how his skin was a pale as smoothly churned cream, but battered and blue and marred with scars and old wounds; how his lips were as red as wine and his hair as dark as raven feathers and how his eyes glistened with a sharpness like the diamonds in his sister's pendants. The boy was like a frightened bird, so skittish and timid of everything around him. Yet when he was told to sing and when he opened his mouth... all traces of weakness melted away like snow in the sun. He was a slave no longer but an unearthly being, one with a colossal amount of puissance that was all his to command. Something stirred inside Arthur, rousing unknown emotions in his chest that he fought to push down.

"Knock, knock." A bush of black tresses poked his head around the door, rupturing Arthur's train of thought. "Is the princess still awake? I fear the hour grows. Have we stayed up past his bedtime?"

"Come in already," Arthur sighed, rising from his seat, "and be quick about it. The warmth will be let out and the corridors are freezing." Three years of Gwaine's services meant he was immune to the man's quips. Albeit, this didn't mean the knight wasn't relentless with his quick tongue, despite Arthur's immunity. That man certainty kept Arthur on his toes. While the prince was often in good humor and took it all in stride, tonight he needed to be a leader — not a friend. Gwaine confidently crossed the threshold and was followed by Elyan, Lancelot and Percival. The bed chambers Aric had offered Arthur with a proud boastful remark on size seemed to shrink when five grown men occupied the space.

"Percival, you will stand guard. Rap twice on the door if someone approaches. Elyan, if you would, check the windows. Leon has already secured the room for preventing matters." Percival bowed at the waist and exited the room swiftly. Elyan crosses the threshold and made certain that the windows were shut and locked so that not a breath could escape on the winds.

The fire crackled animatedly as the men took their seats around the table, leaving Arthur standing, symbolizing he was the leader. The air was sliceable, the tension so thick. Every man knew that if their conniving was overheard by the Mercian Slavers, death would unequivocally follow.

"We are gathered here this evening to discuss what information we have gained of the Slave Hall. We hope of diminishing the ungodly acts within these walls and, what our fathers and their's have not yet been able to achieve, to force an end to Mercia's Slave Trading, permanently. My friends, my brothers, this has not been an easy quest. We have braved many foes alike on our journey here, battling weather and monsters and men, but our trials have only commenced. The future guarantees surprises for every one of us and we can only prepare to the best of our capability. So let us pray for our fortune, and if he has a bit of mind to share, than please speak now."

Lancelot leaned forth upon the table surface and crinkled his brow. "I have heard whisperings that the slave girl, Sefa, shall be sold on the morrow at noon." Arthur's stomach jolted as he recalled her limp form being dragged from the Hall. "Her master's identity and location is unknown, but Aric is eager to rid himself of her. They keep her in her own cell, in solitary, for the night, that is west of the cells we visited."

Gwaine nodded eagerly. "I have heard this as well."

"You?" They stared at him simultaneously, incredulous.

"What?" he protested, insulted by their lack of faith.

"I confidently speak for us all when I say we only assumed you'd prefer to nurse your cup over your ear," Leon supplied.

Gwaine grinned sardonically and spread his hands wide. "That doesn't mean I must exclude my drink altogether. Multitasking, gentlemen! Multitasking!"

"The girl, Sefa," Elyan said, redirecting them, foot tapping in rhythmic thought. "I was informed she had a sister. Freya. She is here, a slave, the one who begged for mercy."

"The same girl they gave their attentions' as we dined?" said Leon.

"Yes. Could we possibly use her to our advantage?"

"How could we accomplish anything with a single girl?" Lancelot pondered.

"She is a single girl seeking revenge for her sister's agony. Surly she resents Aric for torturing her sister and selling her off to an unknown map marking. Could that not be of some use to our cause? We could use her anger to fuel the other slaves and we could easily start a rebellion."

"Yes, we could. It could work. It couldn't. What if? What if not? If we only or if we just… " Arthur mused. "You speak the truth. A rebellion of the slaves would be a fine idea. Their masses far out number the Slavers; if we could arm a few we would be victorious. But the slaves have been starved and whipped and deprived of sun and air... I do not want to ask unsuitable warriors to fight a battle that would promise death. These people have already lost too much."

"You underestimate a human's capability of vengeance, Sire," Elyan protested. "I was in no better shape than these poor souls when you found my sister and I at Cenred's castle — yet I picked up a sword and I fought with everything I had to avenge my name. Remind the Slaves of all they have lost. Of children and spouses and homelands and time, and I am confidant you will be greeted with anger and drive."

"Yes, but what of those who have no family here, who have no will left?" Lancelot said. "We cannot convince someone to fight if they have nothing left in this world. It would be suicide to put a sword in a dead man's hands. The knowledge is not ours when it comes to knowing who is capable of baring arms and who is not, and we have no time that allows us to decipher this matter."

"Which returns us to our initial concern," Leon sighed, and the men went into a flurry of more suggestions.

Arthur slouched into his chair. The candle burned low to the wick. A white moth fluttered obliquely around the flame until it's wing caught on fire and it fell to the ground, twitching slightly as life left its body. Arthur absentmindedly plucked up the little dead insect and cupped it in his hands.

Arthur once had a strong affection for critters and wild creatures. He would rescue flies from spiderwebs and rabbits from snares, fish from nets and birds from thickets. His father berated his kindness towards those in need and drowned his wild friends as warning. Uther swore he had no malicious intent as he drown his son's cat. Called it a lesson and called the tears useless. He would be grateful for these teachings. But the narrow minded king never considered what his actions might cost him in the future. Arthur tucked the month into his pocket and raised his head.

"We cannot depend on anyone but ourselves to accomplish what must be done," he decided. "The odds are not in our favor and the possibilities of our plans failing, should we try to engage the slaves, are of too great a risk to take. It is fruitless to kill everyone we hope to save."

His men lapsed into a ruminating silence as they considered his words. Each and every man here had taken the sworn oath of Knighthood upon their own free will and upheld their sense of duty to the people, the kingdom and their Prince to their entirety. Arthur couldn't have wished for any a finer group of knights than such as his own, and only asked those he trusted most to accompany him on this quest. When accepting this mission, every man knew what would be required of him; they knew this would be no ordinary Hunt or holiday and their talents on the battle field would rival their ability of strategy and logic.

When they set off from Camelot they were prepared to tackle Aric and his Slave Hall — but time had slipped away from them when unexpected snowstorms (not expected til December) came tearing through their thin tents and canvases and they were forced to wait out one perilous blizzard after another on the road. Arthur and his men arrived in Mercia two weeks later than planned, leaving them only three days to free the slaves before the Slavers packed up and migrated their wares to Northumbria.

"Leon, will you explain our current standing to the others as you did for me?"

Leon nodded swiftly and grabbed the roughly sketched map. "This is where we are, and this where the holding cells are in relation to us." His finger tip landed on a black streak that represented the upper level of guest chambers and then ran down the paper to the alcoves below.

"We are directly above them," Gwaine murmured.

"Aric's quarters are here, on the ground floor, directly across from the holding cells on the far end of the Hall. The only entrance to his rooms is through the doors that face the kitchens, and the kitchens are beside his quarters. I hear the mythical "introductory chambers" adjourn his rooms and the only access to these chambers is through Aric himself. He holds the key and the location in his palm."

"Introductory chambers?" Elyan said.

"Torture chambers," Gwaine supplied darkly. "Aric takes his newest batch of slaves and tortures them into submission with whips and chains and lashes. An experiment of sorts. Who can stand what of which device. If they can still stand and breathe after his trial they are sent to the cells or put to work. He also uses the chambers for wrangling in the disobedient."

As if on command, a petrified scream fluttered up from the introductory chambers and through the cracks in the walls like the wings of a raven. Sefa. Solicitude tinged the air and apprehension sparked prodigiously in the chests of the Knights as more shrieks and pleas followed. Lancelot stood and made his way around the chamber, lighting candles in hopes of brandishing away the evilness that resided in the wood and stones.

"Do we have any further information?" Arthur asked softly as the cries died away. The Knights shook their heads.

Two raps came from the door.

The men sprung into action. Lancelot snatched up their map and stuffed it into his boot as Arthur and Gwaine flung themselves into their chairs, trying to look bored and not at all suspicious, and Leon unrolled the list of slaves Aric had given him and set it upon the table.

"Now slaves 29 through 34 are perfectly suitable for what we acquire, but I took notice of 63 who seemed promising and—"

"Er, pardon me," came Percival's voice. Arthur and his men glanced up to find their friend and a lady standing in the doorway.

"Greetings," she said, her voice thick with a Mercian accent.

Arthur briskly sized her up. Curly brown hair graced her waist and prettily framed her blue eyes and sharp features. The servant rags she wore did not mask a sort of elegance and poise she had about her. She was quite lovely, he supposed.

Elyan had to snap Gwaine's jaw shut.

"Good evening Miss," Leon said. "We needn't any firewood, thank you very much."

"What? Oh, oh no," she laughed, a high twinkling sound. She even blushed prettily. "I am not here to supply you with wood."

Arthur and his men shared a befuddled look.

"Let me start again." The woman crossed the threshold and placed the bundle of papers on their table, making sure to thrust her chest forward. She was well practiced in the art of enchanting men. "You lot aren't here to buy slaves, are you?"

Panic seized Arthur as he fought to keep a neutral expression on his face.

"Pardon?"

"I saw your interactions with the boy, Sir. That much was obvious from your behavior alone. You wish no ill will towards the slaves."

"We like to think ourselves decent people, Miss," Elyan began humbly.

Arthur held up his hand and the man fell silent. "Pray tell us, then, what are we here for and why?"

The lady smiled cryptically, sizing him up. "You are here for the slaves like all the rest. But unlike the rest, you have another purpose. You wish to se them free."


	5. Part Five—Merlin

_**Part Five — Merlin **_

_When you feel my heat _

_Look into my eyes _

_That's where my demons hide _

_It's where my demons hide _

It only took a slight, subtle change in the air and the boy was wide awake. Aric had kindly left him to find rest on the floor with his cold iron chains and cold iron head contraption he returned partially because the fat man was too lazy to haul the cage skyward again, and mostly because the boy had been deadweight and unable to move, and everyone had refused to touch him after his performance. The boy blinked away disorientation as he sat up, ears straining for what might have roused him. He could hear the rhythmic melody of breathing from the slaves in the holding cells and the Slavers in their quarters. The shadows were still and the Hall was eerily, peacefully quiet. Moon beams danced across the floor and the boy softly whimpered in longing. Once upon a time he had been as free and beautiful as those shafts of light that called to him from so far away.

This made his mind wonder of his family, a thought he fought so tediously to dispatch. How did they fare? Were they still alive, after all that had happened? Did they remember him? Did they care of his captivity? His mother loved him — he was sure of it — but his kin did not look out for one another as Mortals did. His sister might weep at his absence, and his brother might long for his company, and his mother might wish for his council — but it wasn't of the Demonic Fae's nature to outrightly seek their kin. They believed that should he be meant to return to their Realm, he would return in due time with the help of the gods.

A faint, almost inaudible shift of the weight prickled his senses. The boy scanned the Hall, defensive instincts kicking in. He bared his teeth through his iron. All seemed in order... but then the shadows shifted at the far end of the Hall. A tall figure, by the wooden stairs that snaked to the upper floor. It was the kind stranger. His gold spun hair was disheveled, his eyes unfocused, his clothes rumpled and his mind heavy. Sleep had not claimed him.

The man simply stood by the stairs, silent as the shadows and stoic as stone. Relief reverberated through the boy and he slumped on the floor. He blinked owlishly at the kind stranger, blue orbs asking a multitude of questions his lips could not, but the man vanished as quickly as he appeared, like a scent in the wind, and left the boy wondering if he dreamt the whole thing. Sometimes he was visited by queer dreams after a Song.

The boy shook himself and laid down his weary head to rest, and opened his eyes to the breaking dawn and a dagger in his face.

Lips parted, Sefa cried out and collapsed like a rag doll, the new lashes that decorated her arms, neck, and legs glowered a brilliantly. The dagger spun across the floorboards, used and bloody, splattering droplets in every direction in a shower of red. Crimson blossomed like an unfurling bud beneath her white shift where her heart slept, and her hair sprawled out like a halo above her head. She looked like a ghost or like an angel painted red; an angel forever falling.

Stupid girl. Stupid girl. Stupid girl.

The boy reached out and pulled her to him, cradling her head in his lap like he would with a newborn calf. He needn't ask why. He needn't speak. He simply held on tighter. Shuddering, her blood streamed from her heart in pretty red rivers all around, sighing as the ruby ribbons kissed the frosty morning air.

This was how they were found. Her body had grown cold and stiff and his arms screamed with weariness, yet he still clung to her. Monstrous claws came to pry and prod and rip her corpse from his embrace. He did not fight, didn't even try — he knew he couldn't — and he loathed himself for this. So he was left with only blood coating his fingers as remembrance.

He knew she'd be disposed in a cold, dirty slit with perhaps a dozen other nameless slaves to be forgotten within hours and trapped for eternity. Not even privileged to her own grave. They might slice her to bits, adding additional red streaks to the ones she already bore, and use her for feeding the dogs in the kennels who hadn't been fed in weeks. Or perhaps she'd burn at the stake for the public to see, to be made a statement. A warning. A martyr of their creating. For Sefa's sake, the boy wished her body would be sent to the pyres. It would be the cleanest of actions and her soul would be set free to roam among the seasons.

He dried his tears. They seemed useless. She was dead now and weeping wouldn't bring her back, and there was a disturbance in the air — he felt it in the back of his mind like a long forgotten memory. Somewhere, somehow, someone was wailing. There was shouting from far off and then a stampede of footsteps came pounding in from small alcoves and adjourning corridors; holding cells and rooms and floors above; patron chambers and Slavers' quarters and the kitchens. Edwin came rushing into the Hall with one boat laced and leading a band of furious Slavers; their fear of the Demonic Fae that sat not eight paces away was forgotten in their haste to cross the room.

Aric emerged from his chambers covered with red splatters and whip in hand, his face a peculiar shade of red as fury simmered.

"What is it?" he hissed, cracking the whip like a viper's strike. "I was _not_ to be interrupted!" The boy shuddered and curled in on himself.

Odin came scampering up like a rat, white of face and out of breath, his squire at his heels. "S-s-slave 512 stabbed itself. The little thief m-m-must've stolen my knife right off me! I had it on me the whole time, but then I looked down and found it missing."

"How is that possible?" Edwin said.

"It matters _not!_" Odin exclaimed.

"Does it still breathe?" Aric snapped. "Can it be fixed? Healed? God curse you both if I am to waste a single coin on that urchin. We will be destitute with all the madness that goes on here! Oh, Saints save us all! I have a ship coming this afternoon making haste from Wessex. They come paying nineteen silvers for wares I must say are unusable!"

"It's already been taken away and ready to be dispatched, Sir," another man said. It was Odin's squire. "No pulse. No life."

_No use._

Aric let out a scream that sent the ravens flying in a giant cloud of ebony feathers and brought his great whip down in a deafening blow that even the Slavers flinched at. The boy noticed Freya standing by the kitchen with a few other slaves, eyes eerily vacant.

Freya moved like a wisp of smoke, a flickering flame, face as pale as a ghost. She knelt by him on trembling limbs. _She's __dead_, the girl moaned. _She's dead she's dead she's dead. She's gone and dead and she's done it-really, truly done it-and-and I didn't... I hadn't... honestly... she was always one for dramatics... I should've stayed... I shouldn't've left... I had surly thought... it was..._

_This isn't your doing. This isn't your fault__. _the boy said. She couldn't hear him. The mortal mind was fragile when the heart was weak, and her's was threatening to splinter, a million miles away.

"You, girl!"

Aric came looming toward them. Leering. Words spew from his tongue. Questions. Demands. Accusations. Spittle flew. And then came the whip. The boy moved once more to Freya's aid, sheltering her frail bones with his body. The girl didn't do as much as flinch. Again and again the whip lashed out, each strike with a wild abandon as it found its target. The boy couldn't fill his lungs to scream as his back was set on fire. Old blood mingled with new as the leather bit and broke his skin. It was not the iron whip but equally as deadly. And with Aric at the helm, the boy surly thought that these were his final moments.

"_You. Stole. It. You. Helped. Her. You. Did. This!"_ Aric cried, unaware his mark had changed, unaware he bestowed his wrath upon the wrongly intended. "My reputation will mean nothing. After years of turmoil an' work? I will be ruined! I 'ave been made a fool! A spectacle to be ridiculed an' laughed at!"

Aric knew the price of a man's word well, and he knew the price of suspected treachery even better.

After what must've been fifteen or thirty or fifty lashes, his anger subsided. Breathing heavily, he stared down at them. The Demonic Fae who, in another time, was _Emrys_; shivering and moaning and practically half dead, with a cage around his head and a chain around his neck and lashes upon his thin, bony back that would leave nasty scars. And the slave girl, a Druid unknowingly to him; how she said not a word or flinched or breathed and looked like her sister who he'd tortured not a few hours earlier.

"Edwin. Search their minds. Bring forth whatever you can. See if they assisted 512 in the act. I must find a new slave, now, to replace the one I 'ave lost. Come to me when you've done. Tell me what you've found. Odin, aid our patrons. See to it they don't leave their rooms. This sight won't sit well with 'em. Comfort 'em if you have to or make up a story about night terrors or some other shit. We can't let 'em know what's transpired here. This transaction back will be as if it never happened. The rest of you get off your lazy asses an' begin preparations for the day. Dawn is breaking."

Edwin stalked forth, hood down, charred cheek bared for the world to see. He bowed respectfully as Aric thundered elsewhere and the crowd quickly trickled away. He turned to the pair. His ugly nose crinkled as he took in the pool of blood. The floor would never be clean again.

The sorcerer slowly raised his hands and began crafting an intricate pattern with his motions and tongue. The air winked and twinkled around him, making reality look distorted in an under-water sort of trance. In his palms appeared a net of gilded ropes as thin, delicate and translucent as a spider's web. He cupped this creation and brought it to his lips, blew gently on the net like one might when cooling tea, and sent it floating in the air, sparkling as it flew through shafts of light, to fasten upon Freya's head, and the boy's, connecting them together and to his hand.

"There," Edwin said, pleased, marveling at his power. His burnt skin was illuminated by the golden glow. "Now, let us see what you know." He entwined a few shimmering strands round his fingers and yanked. Their eyes rolled back into their heads and they were swept into the past.

_"My love, where are you? We've almost finished the preparations! Come to me! We must ready ourselves. My love..."_

_A sweet, high giggle came from the child who darted through the undergrowth, hidden by pockets of shadows and moonlight, away from his mother's grasp. He was lithe and pale and far more beautiful than any other boy in the Realm, and he took delight in knowing this. The child sprinted away, nimble and quick footed as a deer. _

_He ran and ran until his legs grew weary, and then he called upon the winds, who were his friends, and he took flight. He passed lakes and rivers and trees and fields, not a care in the world when so high above. He needn't fear of loosing his way or straying from the path. This forest was his home, and she knew him well. She would never let him loose his way. _

_The child startled a few birds and wild animals of the night, causing squawks or protest and surprise, but soon they were flying together, wingtip to fingertip, and they danced beneath the stars. Another giggled escaped him. _

_When the moon shifted to the center sky, he paused to rest. Bones weary and cheeks flushed, his brow glistened with perspiration but his eyes were bright and his soul was happy. He had successfully outrun his mother's clutches and she would not find him until he decided to return. The small glade the child had found homed owls and crickets who hooted and chirped, and a weak wind ruffled a few leaves in a sigh. This was a different part of the forest he had never seen before, he thought, as he came floating closer to the ground, his toes just brushing the ground. Here, the life force had an ancient wisdom far beyond his few centuries of life. The sky was a canopy of stars above his head and the lead litter a blanket below. He inhaled the fresh air. And smiled. _

_**Turn, little one, and see what I see**, said the forest. Her voice echoed in his mind, but he was unafraid. She had spoken to him scores of times before._

_He drifted to a low stone wall riddled with ivy about a hundred paces away. Hidden by stones was a graveyard at the edges of the glade. Ancient, splintering and in ruins, the headstones were scarcely eligible as they prodded from the ground like ashen fingers clawing for sun. A weeping willow stood sentinel in the center of the graveyard, cold and old as the dirt it sprouted from. What a horrible place to sleep, the child thought. He was glad his soul would be free when he died. The spirits here agreed, and such sadness made him uneasy. _

_**Look to the graves. Look to the graves!** she urged. _

_The child floated a bit higher and a bit farther into the clearing of the dead. He was nervous. Whatever he might see was for a purpose, right? The forest would never cause him harm. She loved him, and he loved her. She could be trusted. He knew she could. _

_He stretched his hands and shafts of moonlight answered his call by appearing in his palms, ready and willing to serve. He held his breath as he scanned the crumbling scene of decay. Headstone after headstone. A few weeds left unattended so they grew as high and wide as a tree. More grave markers. More stonewall, it was endless, like a great, gray boa constrictor. A bird here and there, a raccoon scurrying in the underbrush. Nothing spectacular. _

_**To the tree, little one, and be quick about it! **_

_He crept forth, armed by light, his heart beating in his ears. Did the shadows grow, or was it simply his imagination playing tricks? The child approached the tree and drew back the curtain of leaves, wondering what he might find and if that after he looked he could return to frolicking in the fields. _

_Oh, how funny, for here was a grave with its dirt and grass all ruined and stamped on and vacant as the day it was dug. He'd heard stories of thieves wielding iron spades coming to dig up bodies for jewels and riches in the unholy hours. Filthy scum, his mother would scorn, to disturb a soul at its rest. _Mortals_. They know not what they do. That will be their greatest weakness, and the downfall of the empire they build. _

_But then, there, there it was, near the trunk, a little higher, a little brighter, through the leaves, stood the very reason the forest had lead the child here. All fell silent __and dark and cold, then, and it became a night without stars or wind or life, and__ what he saw made him scream._


	6. Part Six — Arthur

_A/N: hello, I am still alive. And never fear, even if I disappear for 5 years, I will never abandon this story because it holds too much of my heart. I do apologize for the delay though. So hereeee weeee gooooo._

_**Part Six — Arthur**_

_Don't get too close_

_It's dark inside_

_It's where my demons hide_

_It's where my demons hide_

Eyes blurry with fatigue and hair a tussled mess, Arthur and the Knights dined at trestle tables throughout the Hall. The fault of their exhaustion? Rising later then they intended, weary from their tedious conspiring the evening before. Percival's large, hulking form could be spotted nearest the entrance to the Slaver's quarters. He had been the first to come to the tables, tasked with observing the Slavers' comings and goings. He fiddled with silverware, his massive hand dwarfing the spoon in his grip. Percival appeared so awkward amidst with those he dined, Arthur was honestly surprised he hadn't been a dead giveaway to them all. Elyan sulked by the great fire in the center of the room. Tight lipped, shoulders stiff and shadows leaping across his furrowed brow, the man could've been carved from stone by steel. He was to gather whatever whisperings he could from patrons and customers and report back to Arthur, but his unsettling presence fended off much potential gossip from his straining ears.

Lancelot laid sprawled across the stone floor by the foot of the Slave Hall's front doors under the guise of being wasted from drinking far into the night. There was none more invisible in a crowd then a drunkard. "You'll make a very handsome throw rug." Gwaine had told him sourly when he learned that Lancelot's task required nothing but a still figure and open ears. Gwaine himself was assigned to the kitchens, for everyone knew that all the essential gossip happened in the kitchens. He concealed his true purpose behind the hopes of nursing a cup and stealing a kiss. But this didn't stop the man from taking it upon himself to pop out now and then to throw bread at Lancelot's slumbering form, with the merry shout of, "bet I can wake him with a single piece of bread to his face! No? Eh! Grab me a few of those potatoes then, girls! Or perhaps some lovely cool ale! That oughtta do the job just nicely! Howdya think some silver would feel to the face? I imagine that'll sober the lad up in a jiffy!" and enjoyed watching the poor fellow stiffen as he expected all things under the sun to come hurling his way through the air. Arthur could only watch in mild horror and exasperation as his knight rained down abuse upon another with vegetables and fruit. But despite the crowd's encouraging hoots and hollers, the cooks were strict. They did not take lightly to the thought of wasting their precious food on some morning tormenting fun and threatened to throw Gwaine out if he so much as glanced at their potatoes and ale barrels. Lancelot was spared.

The Prince knew his own face was one of recognition and wary among the Slavers after the display with the cloak, so he placed himself and Leon in the chairs they inhabited the night before for all to bare witness. This was his attempt of dispelling any rousing suspicions. But the very man they hoped to disinterest with the folly of a harmless, innocent meal was not even present. Aric had stepped not a single foot in the Hall all morning long. So there they sat in drawn out anticipation, playing at finery and fluff as traces of evil echoed from adjoining chambers. At the start, this settlement was more then fine with Arthur who was eager to observe, eat, and rid himself of his fatigue in peace. But the meal crawled on and on with no sign of Aric, nor a single whisper of serviceable information, and soon it would come to an end, as all meals have the habit of doing.

Arthur glanced around the Hall at his comrades for the tenth time in the last ten minutes. The sheer boredom and vexation on their faces surly mirrored his own. He found himself sympathizing with Gwaine, for at least Lancelot didn't have to maintain formalities while on the floor. The Son of Camelot took a deep breath and picked up his knife to buttered a biscuit. The only praise worthy of this hell was the food. Every meal he had taken was fresh, flavorful and hearty. _This is what a proper family should be built on_, he thought as he sunk his teeth into the warm, gooey bread. _The_ _union of food_. Thinking of the souls who starved and rotted in their cells as their masters gorged themselves on the earths' offerings and delights brought a churning to his stomach.

There was a rumor among the Slave Traders about a nasty little hiccup some decades ago. Aric, a younger but no more smarter man, had been called overseas for business. Those he left in his stead had forgotten, or simply refused to bother with feeding the slaves. Two months later the Slave Master returned to find himself faced with some thirty dead slaves. Their death sentence? Their fellow cellmates. The hunger in their bellies had grown too insatiable and in consequence, the slaves turned on the weakest among them. Cannibalism was not unheard of in the Five Kingdoms. It was commonly known that when a ship was wrecked, the surviving sailors would turn to cannibalism before the week's end. Reports and cases of mad folk murdering and devouring their own families appeared here and there from time to time in small, destitute villages. It was a case of the mind gone to war with itself, the physicians said. It was incurable and unpreventable. So yes, cannibalism was uncommon, but a fiction of children's fairytales it was not. What transpired beneath Aric's roof, however, was entirely preventable and cost him a great deal of costumers, coin and respect for a good long while. Despite reclaiming his title as the best slave trader, his reputation still recovered from his misfortune a decade ago.

Arthur reflected on his promise to the slaves, silent but true. The promise he made to his father the night he left for Mercia, fierce and unwavering. And the promise he made to his men, time and time again when they traveled by horse, then foot, then river, then road. And again last night, when the early hours of the morn came crawling upon them as they contrived a scheme to demolish Mercia's slaving trade. He would be damned if any of his vows were forsaken.

"Where were you last night? I woke nearing two and found your chambers deserted," Leon said over the breakfast table, eager to break the heavy silence that loomed like a great stone giant.

"I needed to pace. The night was not kind and sleep was not a swift visitor."

Leon shifted uneasily in his seat. "Did it... did it happen again? After all this time?"

"Indeed. In the early hours, as always. 'Twas sudden and unexpected and jarring... There wasn't a warning, but when has there been a warning before? It is always ever so dark and cold in there. Like a night without stars or wind or life. I see nothing but black and black and more black, but I can feel a looming terror not of my own, but of another, that swells and stretches into something unbearable until I am woken from this borrowed fear..." Arthur grabbed for a third biscuit, missing the frown his oldest friend gave him.

The Prince of Camelot was known to be plagued by dreams ever since he was of eight summers. Odd dreams, his were. Peculiar. Unordinary. One needn't ponder long and hard to come to the conclusion that they were almost (dare even the brave whisper in the absence of Uther Pendragon) _magical_. Some said the boy would wake mid scream, tears glittering upon his face and terror written in his eyes. Others swore he roamed the castle as his mind wandered in sleep and was found by his staff in unusual places at odd hours, speaking in forgotten or indecipherable tongues. And others still, said the Prince would simply rise with the sun, stiff and silent as an ancient oak, face a troubled plane of unspeakable woes. The day would pass in its entirety and he would speak to not a soul unless speech was pried from his lips.

The truth was never revealed to the people, for the King was a private man who despised the very thought of his line associated with any form of unspeakable, inexplicable or magical phenomenon. But some strange event must have occurred, for one grand afternoon an announcement was declared. Every physician in the Five Kingdoms was to answer the call of Uther Pendragon. Every healer and wiseman and doctor under the sun. It was a festival of sorts, in the beginning. The news that the great King was in search of a miracle to heal his only son and heir to the throne slithered into the many cracks and crevices of the world, reaching far and wide. Many responded to the call with an eager passion for coin and fame.

Tonics and potions, herbs and remedies, medicines, concoctions, cures and more were provided for the boy, but to no avail. A good year was dedicated to applying sticky or foul smelling salves to all parts of his body; swallowing liquids of queer colors and horrible tastes that came in funny little bottles with languages from all over the world; and consuming unnamable, somewhat inedible, mishapened things even Gaius, one of the cleverest and most knowledgeable men Arthur had ever met, could not name. Uther made certain a host of servants were on call at all hours to taste and try every single remedy that was given to Arthur. The King knew his enemies would seize the opportunity to play assassin in Camelot's moment of distress. Unknown to the young Prince, many of his servants fell at the hands of false miracles that were intended for him.

As time wore on the crown's purse began to lighten. The cost of the miracle workers were beginning to be felt throughout the land, bringing anger and displeasure to many of Camelot's citizens. Sensing the growing tension of his people, Urther consulted with several of his highest priests. They advised that if the young Prince should ever find himself in the face of mortal peril during these dreams, it was to be taken as a sign as someone wishing harm upon the kingdom. If not, then he could just as well be suffering from a bit of indigestion. The dreams would pass and all would be well. Prunes helped a great deal, one priest had suggested. _Perhaps it is not I who is need of some prunes, Arthur had thought sourly, eyeing the man's constipated stomach that bulged like a ball from beneath his robes. Bowel movement might do the old man some good._

Arthur could explain the dreams no better then the hordes of medical personnel his father brought forth, but he knew they were not normal. This, and the fact that no one seem to care for his mental well-being, displeased him greatly. He only knew he never once found harm in his slumbering visions. They always ended in fear, but never in peril. This reassured his father massively. And so the dreams (despite his personal objections) were dismissed and Urther sent the healers away, empty of pocket and fame. Normality returned to Camelot once again. Hunts and feasts and lessons consumed Arthur's waking hours, but on the scattered nights when the air was too cold or the water was too deep, the young Prince tossed and turned as his weary mind entered this dark place of silence and dread. He told not a soul about his reoccurring dreams, save for for a scant few he trusted with all his heart. For all the kingdom and his father knew, his dreams had dispatched just as the priests said they would.

"Why now?"

"_I don't know_," Arthur groaned. "Such dreams have not paid me a visit in months, and suddenly here they are. It shouldn't be of surprise. This is just how it goes. It irks me to no end..." Tan fingers wove paths in his golden hair. He gripped his scalp in frustration, counted the lines in the wooden table, and took a breath. "But let us focus our attention on the matter on hand."

Leon bowed his head, knowing this was more command then suggestion, and so he did as his Prince ordered.

"Lancelot gave the signal —three groans and one cough— a while ago. He is ready when we are. He plans to find Aric and distract him with a costly purchase of his wares when the hour strikes. Meanwhile, Elyan and Percival will gain the slaver's attention. It is crucial that whatever stunt they pull is untraceable to us. We needn't condemn ourselves to death if it isn't caused for."

Arthur nodded along, half listening. He knew this plan by heart, the plan they had toiled all night to perfect. The only faulty component was the distraction part. But Arthur had faith in his men and wasn't too worried. A distraction should be easy to cause. And once Percival and Elyan created that distraction, they would join Arthur and Leon in liberating the slaves. Arthur would go to the cells and Leon would gathered the servants and slaves unbound. If all went well, none but the deserving would have their taste of death today.

"Perhaps a fire in the stables would be fruitful... Their means of transportation would be lost if their beasts were stolen, and with their loss of their transportation follows their hindering ability to do business in one fell swoop. They would be unable to sell a single item or soul no farther then a day's journey from here, whether it being slaves or Dark Artifacts, least they dared the swamp or treacherous winter storms."

It was originally believed the Slave Hall was that of its name; a hall for selling, auctioning and trafficking slaves. But the complete truth of Aric and his comrades' sins was brought to light by the flame of a dim candle in the form of a servant girl. Nimueh, she had called herself in her pretty voice as she sauntered about Arthur's bedchambers. She claimed Aric not only sold slaves to his customers, but dabbled in purchasing illegal things on the side. Things that possessed magical qualities. _Dark Artifacts_. Her proof? A bundle of letters displaying Aric's correspondence with various, wildly known Dark Merchants who had been on the list of highly wanted criminals in all Five Kingdoms. Scores of innocent folk have perished at the hands of Dark Artifacts that were falsely sold by these Dark Merchants. For centuries, kings have desired the Dark Merchants' heads on spikes and their Dark Artifacts destroyed. Some have been successful in killing a few, but a few more have always managed to slip between their royal fingers. A fly will always be quicker then the quickest of mortal reflexes. It will always dodge a swat or a slap and fly off to buzz in some other's ear, unfazed.

Arthur could not argue with a paper trail that seemed legitimate by what appeared to be Aric's seal and signature, but he _could_ question the serving girl's motives. Why offer them such a valuable piece of information?

"This place is hell on earth, good sir," she had said coldly. "There is no mistaking it for anything but. My brothers and sisters have bleed, wept, and gasped their last breath within these walls. Far too many of them. The men here are evil, devils in their own form. They belong in the deepest, darkest, filthiest pits hell has to offer, and even those wouldn't be suitable for their kind.

"I assume you are aware of the Introductory Chambers, no? _Torture Chambers_ more like. Every child, woman and man is brought to Aric's chambers at the beginning of their stay to be tested in obedience and endurance. If their eyes are still open at the ceasing of his torment they are selected to be sold as a slave or to work as an indentured servant. If they die? Their body goes to the dogs or the mass graves out back. Either way, they have no freedom.

"Here, idle time is a thing of nightmares. If the night is too boring or too cold they take the children and women to use for their own pleasure and beat the men to near death for a laugh. They whisper vows to the expecting mothers of stealing their babes once they birth and they have the young men fight each other until they pass out from their wounds or exhaustion. You witnessed what use they get out of the Demonic Fae, if that torture doesn't satisfy them enough. On the tamest of nights a jaw might be broken or a few fingers might be snapped, and if they are feeling generous of heart they only duel out black eyes and bruises.

"I hear the song of sorrow and hatred in your hearts, good sirs. Believe me when I say I wish for this place to burn just as much as you do. More so, I would wager. I have lost much to this place. You have lost none."

The men shifted from foot to foot and Arthur suddenly felt guilty, as if he was being reprimanded by his mother.

"I am willing to risk whatever it takes to see justice brought to my brothers and sister," declared Nimueh.

With slim fingers she pushed aside the illegal letters to reveal two yellowing scrolls bounded by twine. Unravelled, they were maps. The first was a proper map of the Slave Hall and its surrounding lands and property in its entirety. A horsestable and a mass grave were nestled in the woods behind the Hall and an ancient, crumbling graveyard sheltered by a forest was to the east of that. The second scroll displayed a web of hidden corridors and passageways that were concealed within the Slave Hall's walls. These secret tunnels lead to storage rooms, private chambers and even secluded exits and entrances that only those in the highest of Aric's esteem knew of. The maps were invaluable to Arthur's cause, and Nimueh knew it.

Leon ran his finger round the rim of his breakfast plate, contemplating the cracks and scratches it bore. "I do believe this to be one of the plates that girl hurled at the men last night. She had quite an arm." He let out a weak chuckle, which was followed by the down casting of his gaze as Arthur met his stare, his face as emotionless as stone. There was nothing about this situation to crack jokes at.

Arthur waved off a serving girl who offered to refill his cup with a pitcher of creamy white butter milk. He looked to his men once again. For how long could they keep this rouse going? At the fire Elyan had managed to engage in conversation with the big oaf Odin. Near the Slaver quarters Percival was gesturing in an apologetic manner. Arthur wanted to clobber him on the head. Slavers did not apologize for any of their actions. Especially not for something as insignificant as a bent spoon, and definitely not to the servants. Gwaine's booming laughter could be heard from the kitchens (he was the only laughing soul in the Hall) and Lancelot had vanished. He had slipped away as silent as a shadow while Arthur's mind had strayed and was ready to strike as soon as Arthur gave hi command.

"Do you trust her?" Arthur found himself asking in a hushed tone. "I can't help but wonder..."

A name was not needed for Leon to know of whom Arthur spoke. "Yes, I do. As do the rest of us. We believe she was sent to us by some good fortune. She has no cause to counteract against us. We've caused her no harm and she shares our motives. Sire, she is a godsend. Give your thanks for her intervention and pray we come out of this unscathed."

"Muttering silent words will do me nothing, old friend," Arthur said tersely. This was not the first of these kinds of arguments between the two men. "It will be our will, our cunning, our _swords_ that will write how this story goes."

Leon huffed, no doubt readying his words for this familiar banter. "Sire, I was only saying—"

"God is good, yes. But He can be forgetful and absent as well. Does He not have a bad habit of abandoning those in need? Look around you! We need no proof for we have all the proof in the world right under our noses. See the torture He's allowed! See the horrors He's permitted! Why would a God of such greatness grant permission for such evil to exist?"

"One must have evil to have good. Right cannot exist without wrong. Happiness cannot be felt without sorrow. You cannot have one without the other, Sire. It is simply how the world works. And, they say He has a plan. Maybe this is all part of His plan."

"What is that?"

"I... I do not know," Leon admitted. "That knowledge only belongs to Him and Him alone. Even the priests, who have their own speculations, don't know for cert—"

"Damn the priests, Leon!" Arthur scowled. His father's priests held a sour place in his heart since their handling of his dreams. "I wasn't talking about them. Turn around. _What is that on the floor?_"

"What is what?" Leon turned stiffly to where Arthur pointed. He only saw gray stones and travel worn shoes. The Prince stood with a screeching of his chair and began to make his way towards the edge of the room.

"Sire?" This wasn't part of the plan. Their plan or His or any, in fact.

_You don't see it?_ Arthur wanted to say. A single strand of gold snaked its way like a golden serpent around the base of the stone pillar. It glimmered ever so weakly and flickered out a few times as if it were a firefly. Could it be a strand of hair, or a piece rope, illuminated by the late morning sun? No. It was thicker then any human hair and far too thin to be a piece of rope. It looked almost to be... to be... a golden strand of a spiders' web. Whatever it was, it called to him in the most sensational way. It made him want to spill his secrets and offer up his past on a platter of surrender. Arthur reached the pillar, memeorized and apprehensive. What was this, why did it make him feel this way, and why wasn't Leon affected in the same manner?

A howl of furry erupted over the dim. All was still for half a moment before the footsteps came like thunder.


End file.
